


unique, maybe even special

by RattyCatty



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, F/F, Fix-It, Hope, Hugs, LGBTQ Themes, Past Relationship(s), Post-Underworld (Once Upon a Time), Sexuality Crisis, Swan-Mills Family (Once Upon a Time), Wine moms, compulsory heterosexuality, hook is a dickwad, just soft as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 10:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19926238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RattyCatty/pseuds/RattyCatty
Summary: they don't know what it feels like to be rejected and misunderstood, not the way I do, not the way you do.A character study focusing on Emma's sexuality through the years.





	unique, maybe even special

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i've been wanting to write this story for a l o n g time since OUAT trashed everything and wow, we really out here getting fully emo over swan queen in 2019 i guess??
> 
> warnings for compulsory heterosexuality, bad foster parents, homophobia, brief m/f sex (but in the past and not graphic), past ships other than sq because life is long and weird (lily/emma, emma/men), mentions of hook being an ass. also slight underage if you're very sensitive to that, but it's only barely suggested - emma is 15/16 with someone the same age and it's not even vaguely graphic and it's not about the sex but about the circumstances and consequences, and coming of age, which is why i'm not tagging it. if you don't want to read that, skip the second and third segments!
> 
> there's a happy sq ending, please stick with me through the angst. if you liked, please feel free to let me know as well~

When Emma is fifteen, she falls in love with her best friend.

Well – a stranger, technically, but later a best friend and almost lover.

She’s shoving pop tarts under her shirt, a hole in her stomach after days of running from her latest foster home, and Lily grabs her hand, tells her _no_ you have to do it like this, this way you won’t get caught.

They walk out, arms heavy with snacks and it’s _thrilling,_ thrilling to steal and thrilling to be able to walk rather than run out with cops on her heels. Except – Lily tells her to run, and there’s no cops and so she assumes social services, shitty foster parent, but never the possibility that something might not be quite right. Lily beams at her when they’re catching their breath in an alleyway and she’s caught in it.

“Thanks for the help,” Lily half-pants, half-laughs, and Emma just says, “You had my back, and I got yours,” and it’s that simple.

They share soft words by the lake as they eat their goodies, about foster homes and social services, and Lily points at a pretty house across the water. With a wistful look in her eyes, she says, “Come with me.”

It’s the closest Emma’s ever been to feeling wanted, really _wanted_ , and she grins and nods. 

They spend two weeks in that summer house, eating and playing video games and making funny faces into a left-behind camcorder – a life of luxury, really, compared to everything else Emma has lived through, and it feels too good to be true. Emma finds herself almost scared to be this happy, wonders what hell must come soon because Lily is bright and fun and kind, and she makes the pit of Emma’s stomach flutter in an unfamiliar way.

“Some guys from my school are having a party near here, you wanna go?” Lily announces one night, and Emma pauses and then thinks _screw it_ and nods.

She’s never been to one before – not a proper high school one, not one that wasn’t in a dingy attic with older foster boys daring her to drink cheap stolen liquor. They roll up together, hand in hand, camcorder safely in Emma’s coat pocket and Lily pulls her inside with a grin.

When someone suggests they all play some stupid teen party game, the beer bottle spins and spins on the tile floor and finally lands on Emma. Lily smirks and leans in and kisses her.

They’re both a little drunk from stolen washing machine beers and their lips are unpractised and awkward, but Lily is soft and she kisses like they are the only two people in the world, and it’s so easy to get lost in her.

A second later, Lily pulls away and her eyes are flighty and nervous despite her drunkenness, but Emma’s hand lingers on her jaw a moment too long, and then she looks a little braver. Her thumb rubs across the felt-tip star on Emma’s wrist as she pushes a strand of blonde hair back and stares right into her damn soul for a moment. “I got your back.”

Then, as if becoming aware of their all too gleeful audience, she smiles sheepishly and pulls back and away. Emma misses the softness of her skin, but her chest is warm in a way that she hasn’t felt before, and this is _good_.

And after that, things stay pretty much the same, except now they kiss each other and hold hands and when they fall asleep each night, they curl up together instead of staying at opposite ends of the couch. It feels calm. It feels right. It doesn’t matter that they’re both girls, or what this _thing_ of theirs is, because they are best friends and they have each other and that’s the most important.

Lily is curled against Emma’s chest when there’s a crash and then the tell-tale beam of a flashlight shines around the corner of the hallway. Emma’s awake, staring at the ceiling picking shapes out of the plaster swirls, but she jolts out of her relaxed trance and Lily jumps awake.

She should have realised, she should have known everything was too good, because Lily’s crying and there’s a man shouting, the same man from before – “we were worried sick!” and “you’re coming home with us,” and Emma feels her stomach flip.

Lily leaves, bundled into the back of a shiny car, because everyone _always leaves_. Emma rubs at the ink star until the skin is raw and all evidence of the mark is gone, and then she cries and swears she will never let anyone hurt her like this again.

* * *

They meet again, not long after, and Lily is all dark eyes and flighty movements – shaking hands and tense smiles that are too wide and don’t meet her eyes. She invites herself into Emma’s foster home, makes small talk at the dinner table – _lies_ through her fucking teeth the entire time, and Emma elbows her in the ribs below the table. _What are you doing?_

In the kitchen, they exchange hushed words – a fucking _armed robbery_ , a little more dire than smuggled convenience store groceries, and this is going to ruin everything if her new parents find out because they are very much the straight-and-narrow rule-abiding Christian type, and would absolutely freak the fuck out.

But Emma agrees to hide her, because she knows what drives kids like them to do shitty things, and Lily exhales in relief, steps closer. “Thank you,” she whispers, reaching out for Emma’s hand and drawing nearer.

Night finds them in Emma’s room, Lily curled next to her in the tiny single bed because Emma wouldn’t let her sleep on the floor like had been agreed. One thing leads to another and soon enough, they are breathless and clinging to each other, their fall-out forgotten.

Her new foster father chooses that moment, when they’re nude beneath the blankets, foreheads pressed together, to enter and check on them – which is not something Emma has ever had, she’s not used to it yet, and probably won’t have time to get used to it if the look on his reddening face is anything to go by.

Angry words spill from his mouth, new harsh words she’s not heard directed at her before, and Lily rears up, pulling the sheets up against her chest, curls her lip and spits back at him – _who do you think you are_ and _don’t you dare talk to her like that_. Her foster father shakes his head at the insolence – disappointment, disgust, rather than outright fury – and slams the door behind him, and Emma just tugs her pyjamas back on, pulls Lily close and ignores the sting of angry tears threatening to fall.

When Emma wakes in the morning, Lily is gone and her foster mom is sitting in the chair across the room. She explains – Lily ran, took the holiday money, is wanted for armed robbery – she knows about the lies, about last night, they both do, and Emma, I’m afraid we don’t want – someone like her, like _you_ around our children – what would we tell them if they saw –

 _Our children_ and _someone like you_ is all Emma hears, and she dresses as fast as possible and grabs her backpack and _runs_ just like Lily had.

* * *

There are boys, but they are few and far between.

When she’s sixteen, there’s an attempted one-night stand after a night at some crappy rock club she sneaked into, fuelled by loneliness and sheer self-loathing.

He’s lanky and scrawny with a bit of awkward scruff, and has yet to fill out properly. Neither of them are adults yet, but maybe that’s what makes him more attractive than any other boy – as young as her yet so old, thrown into life at the deep end, kicked in the teeth by everyone who was supposed to love him.

He’s like her – a kindred spirit or something – and pretty nice to look at, too. It should work, right? That’s how this is supposed to go.

But it’s awkward and clumsy, and he’s rolling off and away from her before either of them even get close to finishing. Sweaty, he exhales and stares up at the marked up ceiling. “You’re not into this, are you?”

Emma sighs and runs a hand through her hair, sits up and grabs her dirty tank top, pulls her underwear on. “Sorry,” she mumbles, facing the grubby wall instead of him. (Facing him means facing yet another disappointed soul and – no.) “It’s not you.”

The springs of the bed creak as he sits up and she feels his eyes on her. “No,” the boy agrees softly. “I know.” A long moment passes, and Emma half-expects him to turn on her – to make it her fault and throw her out on her ass like everyone else has. He doesn’t though – just stands and stumbles into his scuffed jeans. He sits back down beside her, doesn’t touch her, doesn’t even look at her as he says earnestly, “I hope you find her, the one you’re looking for.”

Emma glances at him – how could he know, when _she_ doesn’t even know what, who she’s looking for? – and sees nothing but kindness.

“You deserve someone who loves you,” he states warmly, a sad sort of smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He knows, somehow, he knows – maybe from the way she’d looked at him at the bar, the way she hadn’t looked at him when he’d been above her – that she’s not into him or _boys._

Emma’s lips curl into a tiny grateful smile, and she bumps her shoulder against his. “Thanks. So do you.” And then, after a moment, she adds: “Sorry for leading you on,” because it’s expected of her.

He shrugs. “I can settle for friends,” he promises in a light tone – an offering rather than a demand or a put-down.

“Yeah?”

He nods, and that’s that.

Friends.

It’s good.

* * *

Romance comes and goes after that.

He moves on, makes a life for himself drawing comic books. He gets himself a flat without mouldy walls or leaky pipes, and a boyfriend who reminds him to eat and sleep when he forgets to (and who would have seen that coming?)

He does well for himself, and Emma’s happy for him.

She moves on too; she travels the states, and her stealing gets worse – cans of beans and the occasional loaf of bread become DVDs she can sell on, cheap jewellery, clothes. Sometimes she branches out to cars – just to get her from place to place – and is it really stealing if you just take it from one place and leave it in another?

Probably yes, if that place is a few states away and you ‘borrow’ it for a good couple of weeks without telling the owner, but details, right?

This is her life.

It’s empty, and it’s lonely, and there’s never a reprieve.

There are women who share her bed, but none ever stay. What woman wants to date a lost girl with a haul of psychological trauma and a bad habit of thievery?

Fun social experiment.

Result: not one.

* * *

She meets Neal a bit later, and maybe it’s love, or maybe it’s just loneliness that pulls the two of them together. Either way, they end up together, matching like two crappy jigsaw pieces. Jigsaw pieces that have been bent and chewed and mangled so they don’t fit where they’re supposed to, and the plastic stuff on top is all peeling back, the image flaking away.

But they jam together all the same.

He fits in a way not many have before; he accepts every damaged, thieving, angry part of her, and she accepts every part of him. He’s a best friend and somewhere along the way, he becomes a lover.

Sometimes people fit together and gender doesn’t matter. Sometimes there are exceptions.

Neal is an exception, born out of necessity.

And it does almost feel like fate, though she doesn’t believe in it. What are the chances that she just happened to steal his (stolen) car and he just happened to be in the back and so similar to her?

Fate? Coincidence?

Whatever it is, it just fucking kicks her in the teeth again.

An accidental baby (not this, not now, she swore she would never, not when she herself doesn’t know the first thing about family, but maybe with Neal – maybe it could be different–), a case of stolen watches and something gone horribly wrong, and Emma’s alone again, but this time, she’s in jail with no more than a shitty set of prison scrubs to her name.

But – not alone.

There’s a baby – a tiny person in her belly, flesh and blood, just like her – one she can’t possibly look after in her state, jailed and broken and not even an adult herself yet. (Eighteen years in the system and the cycle of abuse – damaged kids becoming damaged mothers and _she swore she would never.)_

And yet she’ll have him (Emma thinks it’s a him, she’s sure somehow) anyway because she can’t face flushing him out of her body like he never mattered and it’s not like she has much choice in here anyway.

Every morning Emma wakes up, and her belly is bigger, and the nausea of _what the fuck am I doing with my life_ is heavier in her stomach, and some days she can’t even bare it.

Some days, she thinks of Neal – _the_ _exception –_ and she sees red. She wants to scream and scream and scream (if she hadn’t taken a chance on him, where would she be now?) but she doesn’t.

* * *

Emma’s a floater.

She gets out, eventually, and she should be thrilled, invigorated with new life, happy to breathe the air and walk down the street and go where she chooses. She _is_ happy to be out, except that she floats through life outside in much the same way as she did in prison. Same shit, different scenery.

Little lost girl with nowhere to go.

She quickly learns to fight properly with her fists and use her body as a weapon, except she’s been fighting her whole life, kicking back against pure shit luck with bared teeth and steel in her blood.

When she finds her way into a well-paying bail bonds job – at least she’s got money now. No more stealing for Emma Swan. A decade passes in lonely mediocrity.

And then shit really hits the fan.

There’s a bright boy – small with delicate features and clothes too expensive for a ten year old – and a weird town and crazy talk of curses and magic and babies in wardrobes and seriously, who writes this shit? But Emma goes with him, of course she does, and then suddenly she has a son and parents and magic and a fucking evil arch nemesis right out of a movie.

Maybe she’ll wake up tomorrow in a shit-smeared crack house and find this was all some fucked up drug-induced haze.

Then again, maybe not.

At least the arch nemesis is hot. She’s an ass, uptight and snarky, but Emma’s pretty sure if she looked up the definition of MILF, there’d just be a picture of her in all her mayoral, pain in the ass glory. There are certainly worst people to have weirdly intimate and charged arguments with.

(Sometimes she thinks about her late at night, and if she gets off to the image of Regina bent over her stupid desk, she doesn’t need to know _._ Even if one time Emma slips up and cries out her name into the darkness and Mary Margaret hears through the thin walls, knocks tentatively on the door minutes later with “are you ok?” and Emma has to stutter _uh, yeah, fine MM,_ between heavy, shaking breaths.)

Still. She’s Henry’s mother (blood doesn’t mean much when you have ten years of love and care and worry under your belt) and like it or not, Emma has to be civil most of the time. For Henry’s sake.

Henry – her _son,_ and Emma’s still not quite used to that – falls under a sleeping curse thanks to his mom and her stupid revenge apple turnover (and it is _fucked,_ everything’s fucked, but Emma has had bad parents and Regina doesn’t even come close). It’s the final nail in the coffin of her belief that magic isn’t real and all is as it seems.

It’s _real._

And Emma Swan has parents.

Twenty-eight years of believing no one wanted her, all those years as a little girl praying her parents would show up and take her back.

Twenty-two different foster families, each seeming like they would be The One, but each as bad as the one before, or _worse_.

All for nothing, because here they are – her _parents –_ fucking Snow White and Prince Charming in all their perfect, fairy tale glory.

It’s not her world.

They want a perfect daughter to coddle and love, who can appease their guilt about shipping their baby off to Maine in a tree, and Emma is…not. She finds herself slipping away when possible, ghosting away from smothering hugs and over-earnest words to bars or fist fights or – god – even paperwork.

Just another disappointment.

* * *

Somewhere along the line, she starts changing herself.

She resists at first – kicks back, fights all the lofty expectations and cloying praise that is suddenly thrust upon her, staunchly refuses to call herself the _Saviour_ because what kind of ridiculous, fairy tale bullshit –

How can she be a princess and the Saviour when, only months ago, she was full of anger and bitterness, the kind of asshole who crawls out of the window after a one-night stand without a word.

But then they’re in Neverland and everything – her son’s life, her sanity ( _her_ life as well, if Regina has a say in it) – hangs on Emma _believing in herself_ and stepping up to her mystical responsibilities.

Hook tags along at her heels everywhere she goes, all pouty lips and bad flirting, and Emma thinks sometimes maybe he understands just a little bit.

He’s grey, morally. He understands the urge to run or fight when things get too comfortable.

Then again, maybe not.

And then Neal is back, and Mary-Margaret seems so desperate for the both of them to kiss and make up, but some things can’t be forgiven so easily, and she either won’t listen or can’t understand when Emma tells her _it’s not like that, we’re not like that anymore._

So she kisses Hook because he asks, and when her mother switches objectives and asks about him (something about gooey eyes, but Emma’s fairly sure Mary-Margaret’s got rose-tinted glasses on because the only eyes he makes are lecherous) Emma shrugs, but doesn’t deny it.

Emma remembers disappointed foster parents, and how she got sent away when she was fifteen for making love to another lost girl, sees her mother’s excitement when she thinks Emma’s finally found herself a man (christ) and she can’t bear to destroy that (for mom or for herself, she don’t know.) It’s easier to be the Perfect Daughter and Pure Saviour and date the man everyone wants her to date, and god, she’s so tired of fighting.

Just once, Emma wants to take the easy option. Just once, she wants to make someone proud.

And so it becomes a Thing.

Emma And Hook become a thing, and she doesn’t really know why or how, but it just sort of happens.

Hook tells her about how she’s his happy ending and his redemption, and she forces a smile, but inside, yearns to _run run run_. Late at night, when he touches her (and he does a lot – he’s big on physicality) it’s never without consent, but she doesn’t feel anything either. Her chest feels empty and he touches her well enough to kick start her body’s natural response, but mostly she feels bored.

He comes with a loud grunt and promptly pulls out, rolls away, and falls asleep. Emma waits a moment before slipping out from under the sheets and padding quietly to the bathroom to finish herself off. She ignores the way Regina, with her painted lips and dark eyes and arching back, is still always the last thing she sees behind her eyes before she comes.

Old habits die hard.

* * *

They say if you tell yourself a lie for long enough, you start to believe it.

This is what Emma thinks about when Hook plays the orphan card again, hurling the word at her as if she hasn’t tormented herself enough with it throughout her life. This is what she thinks when her eyes are perpetually red-rimmed and her skin pasty, when some days she can barely peel herself out of bed because her long-fought insecurities eat her alive. This is what she thinks when the two of them are dark and share a little blue house with a white picket fence and Hook shouts at her and she shouts back.

And then she pushes the thought away, buries it beneath thoughts of how lucky she is that someone wants her at all, how happy her family is to know she has her _happy ending_.

Sometimes Emma catches Regina eyeing her carefully when she thinks she’s not looking, and a shiver runs down her spine. (Regina and the desk, the way her face looks when she comes, when Emma comes thinking about her. _She doesn’t need to know.)_

Regina has these eyes, deep and wise and intelligent, like she knows everything Emma is hiding. Like she knows the last thing Emma sees before she comes in the shower, and the nausea that she feels when she sees her stupid blue house and picket fence, and that sometimes when “something’s come up” it means she just doesn’t have it in her to leave the house.

Regina can be irrational and too quick to act sometimes, but sometimes Emma – and everyone else – forgets how perceptive she is; she watches and calculates, even if no one else does, so she _knows things._

And the way Emma catches her watching her sometimes? It’s like she knows.

Emma doesn’t know _what_ , exactly, but Regina must know _something_.

Other times, the mayor watches her with a look of concern and understanding, like she knows exactly what Emma’s going through, even when she herself doesn’t.

Regina’s always been more intense than anyone, and when it’s channelled towards Emma, it makes her uneasy, so she does what she does best, and ignores it.

Emma ignores it, and when Hook dies and she follows him to the Underworld, Regina shoots her these worried and pitying looks, and she ignores those too.

She and Hook have True Love, you see.

They must do.

What else is there?

* * *

Apparently there _is_ somethingelse.

Emma always expected fairy-tale folk to be like every conservative foster parent she had as a child – narrow-minded, oblivious to the fact that there are more ways than one to fall in love. They’re near enough medieval or something, right, so it makes sense?

Except that there’s Ruby – lovely, bubbly Ruby who always seemed too modern for a land of royals and curses and weird, heteronormative fairy nuns – and a _friend_ and it sounds ever so familiar. And then Emma understands why, because it _is_ familiar, and Henry comes downstairs brandishing a few pages of the book. They speak of true love, pure and heroic as any, and on one page is a glossy illustration of Ruby and Dorothy, cheeks flushed and lips locked as magic spills out around them and a curse breaks.

Henry beams proudly as he puts the pages down on the table, and Emma wouldn’t expect anything else from him because he is good and kind and neither she or Regina raised a bigot. What gets her, though, is David’s own smile, warm and immediate, Snow’s unyielding enthusiasm to help Ruby find her lover be it male or female or other, and Regina’s stoic yet quietly approving exterior (soft, soft eyes and the almost imperceptible curl upwards at the corners of her lips.)

Regina meets Emma’s eyes over the pages, and there’s something more there – like a gentle bump of shoulders, or a prompting squeeze of her arm. ( _she knows)_

Emma’s stomach flips and her lunch threatens to come back up because _she didn’t know there was anything else._ She didn’t know two women kissing could be taken as well as any straight couple in the book, that her parents would be so supportive, that that was an _option._

She swallows down nausea and forces a tentative smile, and then she remembers Hook is sitting at the end of the table. He’s not smiling – just looking as impassive as he always does when things don’t concern him personally.

Emma loves him and there’s no one else she’d rather have, whatever gender.

(Even if she didn’t, they’ve come too far to go back now. She’s dragged her whole family down to _hell_ for him, for Christ’s sake, and she’s expected to rescue him and then continue living their perfect life together _that’s how this goes)_

She reaches across the table and grasps his hand, squeezing gently – a reassurance that she’s here, she’s not going anywhere.

She doesn’t know who she’s trying to convince anymore.

* * *

The heart split fails.

Regina pieces Emma’s bright heart back together and pushes it carefully back into her chest, her hands ever so gentle and cautious. When she’s done, Regina settles a palm on her shoulders like she might to Henry when he’s getting down on himself. “We’ll find another way,” she promises, her fingers gripping Emma’s shoulder reassuringly. Her breath forms a cloud of fog in the icy air, brushes over Emma’s nose and mouth, still a little warm. 

(It’s funny, how she’s become Emma’s rock these days when a few years back Regina had been all over the place and _Emma_ had been the one trying to ground her and pull her back.)

_You had my back, and I got yours._

And to Regina’s credit, she does everything she can to help, even if she doesn’t agree. (She doesn’t, would never say it these days, but Emma can see it in the way she bristles when Hook is mentioned, the way she opens her mouth but doesn’t say anything whenever Emma and Hook’s _true love_ is mentioned.)

But in the end, it doesn’t matter – or it does, but not in saving Hook.

Dead is dead, just like everyone said, and that’s that.

And their wasted trip is not only completely pointless, but it costs Regina her soulmate – Robin dies too, and Regina’s on the floor of her bizarro office, sobbing, cradling a body, clinging to her sister, and how could Emma be so fucking _selfish._

When they get back to normal Storybrooke, everything is too bright. The sun and lack of smog hurts Emma’s eyes and her blue house makes her want to throw up, and so she sells and gets a new apartment of her very own and keeps the blinds drawn all the time.

She’s in _mourning._

Her True Love just died _properly_ (he was dead before and everything that came after was a stupid illusion of hope) (shut up)

This is normal. This is what a loving girlfriend would do.

Snow texts twenty times a day, and when Emma doesn’t answer, she reluctantly lowers it to five times a day in the hopes that giving Emma space will do the trick, but she still refuses to answer. David sends pizza to her door every Friday night but she never eats it. She doesn’t eat much these days.

Henry texts her, and she _does_ answer him. They talk about menial things, and when he asks how she’s getting on or something to that effect, it takes her a while to reply, and all she can do is change the subject.

Three weeks into this new lifestyle, Regina comes banging on the door. She knocks, loud and angry, and doesn’t stop knocking until Emma drags herself up off the sofa and to the door.

She’s in a dirty tank top and old sweats, no bra, with lank hair and a bare face, and she’s never felt more unattractive. Regina doesn’t judge, though. She just gives Emma a once-over as if to figure out how she’s doing (bad, she concludes), and then fixes her with a neutral look free of pity.

“Your mother is getting worried and told me she’ll be sending Archie over next week if she hears you still have yet to leave the house,” Regina states matter-of-factly. “It just so happens Henry and I are having lasagne and family night on Friday at 6:30. You’re welcome to join us if you so wish. If you’re there I’ll be sure to let her know Archie’s visit is unnecessary.”

Emma says nothing for a long moment and just stares blankly. Regina’s eyes are steady and seem to bore right into her, and Emma squirms slightly on the spot, rubbing the back of her neck and shifting anxiously. “Ok.” And then when she realises Regina’s offering to cover for her: “Why are you doing this for me?”

Regina rolls her eyes as if Emma’s the biggest idiot in the world. “Because you’re my _friend_ , Emma,” she says with a hint of frustration, but mostly a sort of earnest love. A moment later, she tacks on, “And because I’m fed up of Snow calling me at 2am to cry about how you still haven’t texted her back.”

And Emma can’t help but snort at that despite everything, because that’s so Snow and Regina she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

She’s missed it – them.

“Consider it,” Regina says softly, ignoring Emma’s amusement. “I’ll set out a place for you.” Her eyes turn warm and molten in that way they do sometimes, shining with _something_ that makes Emma’s tummy feel warm and fuzzy even though She Is Mourning. “Henry would really like you there. So would I.”

And with that, before she has a chance to formulate a response, Regina turns and leaves. Emma stands dumbly in the doorway and listens to the clack of heels down the hallway until she can’t hear them anymore, and then heads back into the flat and opens the blinds.

* * *

Friday rolls around, and Emma is filled with unease about leaving her safe bubble and seeing people ( _Regina_ , specifically) that she nearly doesn’t go. Except then she remembers what Regina had said about Snow sending Archie around, and Emma wouldn’t put it past her, so what choice does she really have?

For the first time in weeks, Emma dons tight denim and her red leather jacket and heads outside. She doesn’t bother with make-up or styling her hair, because really, it would be suspicious if she did – like she’s trying too hard to seem more ok than she is. She does, however, swing past the liquor store and pick up a bottle of red wine that looks like something Regina might enjoy. (Not that she’s much of a wine expert, but she tries her best all the same.)

And then her legs carry her to Regina’s house, and it towers over her, large and regal and intimidating, and who is she to be here? A dead pirate’s girlfriend, a street rat, a little lost girl –

“Emma.”

A deep voice, but that one word – _her_ _name –_ is breathy and warm.

Regina is standing in the open doorway, and Emma’s fist is left hanging in the air as if to knock except she never did because Regina must have been looking out for her.

Before Emma can think too much about that, Regina smiles, hopeful and warm and beautiful but mostly just _pleased_. She steps back, opening the door wider.

Emma remembers to lower her fist at last and manages a smile of her own. “Hey,” she says softly, and remembers _you’re Henry’s birth mother?_ and _hi_ all those years ago. How things have changed. 

( _loving women and steel in her blood and thoughts of Regina in the shower and fire in her chest)_

“I’m glad you came,” Regina says, and Emma tries to feel for a lie, false sentiments to make the poor sad girl less likely to shut herself in and destroy herself, but there isn’t one and it rings entirely sincere.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Emma tells her because it feels polite, but also because already her warm presence is touching Emma. Regina wears her heart on her sleeve, and her care for her best friend shines through whether she means it to or not. Emma soaks up every bit of it she can get even if she doesn’t deserve it because Regina is warm and she’s felt cold for so long.

Holding out the bottle of wine for her to take, she steps inside, into the homely orange glow of the hall. She can hear Henry playing video games in the living room, and the smell of Regina’s cooking curls from out of the kitchen, filling the house and making Emma hungrier than she has been in weeks.

It’s only standing here that she realises how empty her apartment feels, still and silent – how it’s not _home_ but just another place to sleep.

Here? Now _that’s_ a home.

There’s just the two of them here and everything is pristine and yet it feels _lived in._ It feels full and lively and Right.

Regina takes the bottle and raises an eyebrow as she glances over the label. She nods slowly. “I’m impressed, Swan,” she drawls, her lips curled into an approving smirk.

“You like it?”

Regina nods. “It’ll do,” she teases with a smile. “Thank you,” she says softly, like she’s not just thanking her for the wine.

Emma’s chest feels warm warm warm and so do her cheeks and for a moment, it’s so easy to forget all the shit that’s happened and to just be – whatever she and Regina are to each other.

“It’s no problem,” she says with a shrug, shoving her hands bashfully into her pockets.

A moment passes (all these moments between them – no words and yet so much emotion and perfect understanding – how does that work when it was always so much work to make herself understood with Hook?) and then something in the kitchen beeps, drawing them both out of their spell.

“Would you get Henry and tell him to help set the table?” Regina asks, in mom-mode already.

Emma nods and watches Regina enter the kitchen, hips swaying. She stays there long enough to see her move confidently and fluidly around the room, a well-practiced dance, and then she shakes herself free from dangerous thoughts.

“Hey, kid,” Emma greets as she enters the den, as casually as one can after weeks of self-induced isolation. “What you playing?”

Henry’s head snaps around and he looks at her with wide, surprised eyes. There are questions that lay there (he’s curious and inquisitive like his mother and sometimes that’s a curse) but she plops down on the couch beside him and watches the screen, and he seems to understand: _not now._

“Skyrim,” he answers nonchalantly, mashing a few buttons. “You want a go?”

“Later,” Emma promises, and Henry nods, tucking that away so he can hold her to it later. “Your mom wants the table setting.”

Henry slumps down like any teenage boy just asked to do household chores, but sits up quickly enough, exiting the game and turning off the TV. When they both stand, he looks at his ma with a crooked smile for a moment and then wraps his arms around her shoulders tightly. He’s so big now, more man than boy, and she hold him close, close as possible.

“Me and mom really missed you the last few weeks,” he mumbles into her shoulder. Emma rubs his back absently, just going with the tug in her chest and relishing the unbridled love Henry pours out.

After a long moment, he pulls away and pats her on the shoulder, grinning at her (and he definitely got _that_ from David) before he saunters out of the room and into the kitchen to get cutlery and plates.

* * *

Dinner is nice. Really nice.

Regina’s lasagne is the first thing Emma’s eaten in weeks that hasn’t tasted like cardboard, and the wine is a little richer than she’s used to. She’s comfortably full after one helping, but Regina smiles warmly and offers her more, and so she has a second anyway just because she can and it tastes better than anything.

Henry talks about his school project and the story he’s writing in English and how there’s a dance at the end of the summer term, and then he flushes pink and goes quiet, like he’s said something he hadn’t meant to. Regina smirks at his sudden bashfulness, picking up on exactly why he’s so embarrassed.

The brunette shoots Emma a knowing smile, inviting her to join in on the teasing. It’s practically a mom rite-of-passage, and so she does. Henry’s blush spreads to the tips of his ears and finally he groans, “ _Moms,_ oh my god,” and hides his face in his hands. He’s grinning still though, so there’s no harm done, and it all feels so _easy._

It’s easy and accepting (Regina teases gently about hollow legs when both mom and son put away two plates each but never makes them feel bad for it) and it’s everything family should be. Regina says, “You know, I think you’re supposed to invite her around to meet your parents at some point,” and Emma finds herself hoping to be there when it happens (because _co_ - _parents_ not _parent_ and maybe Regina wants her to be there too.)

Which is surprising to even herself considering she nearly didn’t come tonight, but still.

Emma smiles at Regina’s façade of innocence, but chips in anyway. “Yeah, kid, when do we get to meet the girl who’s making our son so happy?” 

Henry drops his hands and stares at the two of them in disbelief. “We’re so not doing this,” he groans, shaking his head a little. There’s a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, though, just a little. He shoves another forkful of lasagne into his mouth and chews for a minute, and then says around his food, “If you _promise_ not to scare her away–” (He says this lightly, because these things still hurt in the wrong tone) “–I’ll ask if she wants to come round for tea some time.”

Regina cocks her head, mulls it over for an exaggerated amount of time with a small smirk on her lips, and then nods finally. “We’ll try not to be scary,” she agrees, glancing over at the blonde. Henry smiles coltishly and goes back to scraping his plate clean.

Then, ever so slightly, Regina leans in close to Emma, hand brushing against the underside of her wrist as she murmurs under her breath (throaty, silky, mischievous all at the same time), “No one said anything about embarrassing.”

And Regina is _totally_ the uncool, over-protective, worrying mom and Emma lives for it, so she laughs quietly.

Henry nearly busts them both, looking up from his plate in confusion, but Regina rights herself and Emma schools her face into an innocent one. He shakes his head. “Moms,” he sighs to himself, and it’s all they can do to suppress their laughter.

* * *

Emma doesn’t get home until nearly eleven, full and warm and buzzing from the wine and company. Her flat feels empty, almost clinical, compared to Regina’s, but she curls up with a cup of tea and Netflix before she can let it ruin her mood. Sleep comes easy and for once, she doesn’t dream of pirates or the Underworld or disappointed family members. She doesn’t dream at all, and when she awakens, she feels rested.

Regina comes by with Granny’s at lunchtime under the pretence of _Snow told me to_ , and the two of them sit side by side on the couch, her stocking-clad thigh brushing casually against the knee of Emma’s crossed legs. She picks delicately at her chicken Caesar, gently ribs the Friends rerun on the TV and laughs, quiet and fond, when Emma valiantly defends it.

It’s nice.

Emma can’t think too much about it – about _how_ nice it is, or how much easier it is than with Hook – just that it is Nice.

Regina keeps dropping by a few days through the week, with lunch or dinner or a fresh box of Emma’s favourite tea bags because she noticed she was running out. On the Thursday evening, she brings a six-pack of beers (even though Emma’s pretty sure the queen hates beer) and she folds herself up at one end of the couch with a book whilst Emma plays Sonic at the other end.

(And _that’s_ a whole new can of worms because since when did Regina wear glasses and has she always been comfortable enough around Emma that it doesn’t bother her when Emma’s sock feet accidentally brush her knees when she stretches?)

On Friday, Regina invites her around for family night again, and from then on, it becomes a Thing. Emma brings wine and Regina cooks, and together they put Henry to bed (even though he’s big enough, old enough to do it himself now because he never complains) and head to the living room to finish off the wine. They talk and laugh and cry, and sometimes they talk about what happened, with Robin in the Underworld (how Regina had been so devastated and _angry_ at first, at everyone and at Emma and mostly at herself, and how it still hurts because even if fairy dust and shared trauma doesn’t automatically make a soulmate, he’d been nice, he’d deserved better, his _children_ deserved better) but they never talk about Hook, never him.

More times than not, she ends up in the guest room at Regina’s instance because, “You can’t drive in that state, Emma,” and “Friends do this.”

Emma starts going outside more after that, going to Granny’s for hot cocoa in the morning or picking Henry up from school or joining Ruby on her girly nights out. (That one’s less fun because she can’t get into _rebound pick-ups_ and usually ends up being the unofficial designated driver and honestly, she’d way rather be round Regina’s right now.) She even plucks up the courage to visit her parents, which is kind of an uncomfortable experience what with Snow’s smothering and the pirate-shaped elephant in the room, but it feels good to not have to avoid them anymore.

She goes back to work a week later and things feel almost normal again.

They’re not, not at all, because Hook is still dead and Emma still feels caught between who she is and who she’s supposed to be and there are still things she can’t think about, but it’s – manageable. It’s okay. It’s no longer an Official Crisis.

This is what she – unintentionally, drunkenly – tells Regina one night on the couch in her study after food and maybe a little too much wine. It’s a mumble, something she mentions in passing, but Regina catches it – she always does, always has, damn her – and cocks her head.

“Emma,” she says softly, always so soft. She can’t be sober right now, not with how buzzed Emma is feeling, not with the slight looseness of her movements and the way her voice is a little louder, a little more unsteady than usual, but somehow right now, she’s passing as it.

“What do you mean?” Regina asks, looking at her intently, her face confused and concerned.

“I – I don’t know,” Emma murmurs. “Just that – things are better now, right.”

Regina doesn’t agree or disagree, doesn’t even nod or shake her head, just waits for her to get it out. (Emma thinks of how quick everyone here is to pass judgement, to talk her into a certain headspace before she’s even finished speaking, and this is just another Special Regina Thing that she’s endlessly grateful for.)

“I’ve made up with my parents and I’m back at work and I’m spending time with my family and I’m not a hermit anymore and that’s _good,_ right?” Her hands are in her lap, picking at her nails anxiously.

“But?”

“But I can’t help but feel like things – aren’t. Things aren’t – how they’re supposed to be,” she breathes.

Regina’s eyes light up – not in joy but in…recognition, maybe? Like she knows exactly what Emma means. Like maybe this is exactly the epiphany she’s been waiting for since (since when? Since the Underworld? Since Emma went dark? Since _Hook?)_

Emma asks, “You ever feel like you’re not the person you’re supposed to be?” and Regina chuckles almost bitterly.

“Emma,” she says. “You remember who you’re speaking to, right?”

And right, yeah. Of course Regina understands that. But – is it the same? Maybe it is. Maybe it’s not. “Right,” Emma agrees with a shake of her head (idiot). “I mean – there’s a split.” She reaches forward to the coffee table, nearly topples right off the sofa in her effort to grab her glass of freshly topped up wine. A healthy sip, and ok, that’s better. “Between the person I… _am_ , and the person my parents – this town – want me to be.”

Regina nods. “You mean between the Saviour and Emma?” she asks.

“I guess, yeah,” Emma nods, because yeah, that’s a pretty big part of it. There’s still more though, something she can’t quite label herself (no, something she’s not sure if she wants to, _can_ label yet.) “But also kind of different? It’s something more than that.”

She sees Regina nod, can almost see the cogs turning in her head. “Is it – is it about Hook?” the brunette tries tentatively. She glances up at Emma from beneath her lashes, almost shyly, an almost nervous hitch in her breath. And – god – she _knows –_

Emma can’t breathe, can’t talk, so she just nods once.

She thinks of Lily and of failed one-night stands and the book and getting herself off in the shower and dark eyes squeezing shut in bliss and family nights and _god_

“Regina, I think I made a mistake,” she breathes, barely audible, and pulls her knees up to rest against the back of the sofa. She’s facing Regina full-on sitting this way, and she can’t do that right now, so she drops her forehead to her knees and sucks in a breath. “I made a stupid mistake and it’s hurt everyone so much,” she mumbles, her eyes stinging and voice wet. God – making Hook the Dark One and dragging everyone to fucking _hell_ and costing Regina her soulmate – she’s so fucking stupid, an idiot, a selfish idiot in the least endearing way and for _what –_

“Emma,” Regina whispers, and there’s the sound of fabric moving, of the sofa springs squeaking softly. “Emma,” she repeats, and there are hands feather-light on Emma’s knees, her shoulders, the sides of her head, tilting upwards gently.

“I wanted so badly to be the daughter they wanted, Regina,” she gasps, allowing Regina to cup her jaw in her soft, soft hands as tears spill down her pale cheeks. “Their – princess, their product of fucking _true love_ and – and I fucked it up for everyone.”

Emma’s not sure if Regina gets it, can’t tell if she knows what this is really about, but delicate hands find Emma’s shaking ones and hold them tight, fingers entwined. “ _Emma,”_ she just says again, and she’s possibly too drunk for profound speeches right now, but just her name on Regina’s lips is somehow calming enough.

She doesn’t know what possesses her, what makes her think this is in any way a good, sensible idea, but she doesn’t really think about it that much. She just lurches forwards, into Regina’s warmth, and their noses bump together before their lips do and it’s awkward – wet and she’s probably all snotty so _gross_ but Regina is soft and warm, pure _love_ personified and she can’t bring herself to care. 

It’s a fucking terrible idea. This is a fucking _terrible_ idea.

But Regina kisses back, tentatively, like she thinks Emma might break, like she can’t believe this is happening either, and it’s like that party all those years ago and it’s like walking into Regina’s house that first Family Friday and it’s home.

Regina leans heavily on her, knees pressing into the sofa and one arm on the arm rest behind Emma’s head holding her steady, completely unlike a Queen or a mayor – just _Regina_ who loves deeply and values home and family and comfort above all.

When they part, her breathing is unsteady and eyes dark and wet. “Oh,” is all she says, and Emma sucks in a breath.

“I’m sorry,” she stutters out on an exhale, “I’m sorry,” and starts to move and free herself from this position before she can get herself hurt again over this, but Regina holds her hand tightly and looks her fiercely in the eye.

“ _Never_ say sorry for that – for loving,” Regina whispers and squeezes Emma’s hand for emphasis. “Regardless of who it is.” She stares for another second and then leans down and presses a kiss to trembling knuckles.

“Ok,” Emma agrees kind of dumbly, and wills her body to relax. “I just – can we? Can we do this? After everything, and my parents, and _Henry–”_

“Henry will be over the moon if we do this, you know that,” Regina says with a chuckle, shifting to settle into a more comfortable position leaning against the back of the sofa, her free hand rubbing Emma’s knee. “I’m confident your parents will understand; they love you, Emma, with or without some straight storybook True Love.” And she seems sober again, and man, drunk Regina is _weird_ sometimes because Emma’s sure she could never have this much clarity after so much wine. She struggles enough as it is sober, honestly.

“And if they don’t, I’ll be more than happy to take it up with them, believe me,” Regina promises lowly.

Emma can’t help but laugh at that, and Regina’s lips quirk up into a wet smirk.

“Regina – god – Ruby and Dorothy – I _didn’t know_.” She pushes her free palm into her eye until it hurts a little bit, trying to stop the tears. _I_ _didn’t know I didn’t know I didn’t_

Regina squeezes the blonde’s hand and pulls her closer into a half-hug. “I know. I know. It’s ok.” Brown eyes meet green ones, a thumb still gliding over her knuckles and then up her shoulder, returning to her jaw. Regina sucks in a shallow breath, trailing her fingers up Emma’s neck and over the shell of her ear. She dips in for another kiss, deeper, braver than the first and Emma is quickly drowning in it – basking in it, thriving, breathing for the first time in years.

“I waited so long – to be enough for you, to be enough for Henry, for the right time,” Regina murmurs against the blonde’s lips when she pulls away and rests their foreheads together.

Emma reaches out and let the pads of her fingers brush against the soft wool of Regina’s jumper – a test – and then slips an arm around her waist. “It’s ok,” she echoes. “You’re more than enough. It’s ok.”

Regina breathes, and Emma breathes, and they are both ok. “Stay,” Regina whispers, leaning her warm body against Emma’s, and the blonde nods, promises, and as they drift off to sleep together, sleepy from wine and tears, Emma knows now – she doesn’t care for being the saviour or a perfect princess or a pirate’s lover. She thinks of being fifteen, of Lily and homophobic foster parents and failed nights with boys, thinks of shower orgasms and magic lessons and knowing looks and family nights and _Regina._

This is enough. Regina is enough. _Emma_ is enough.

Heterosexual fairy-tale be damned.


End file.
